[broadcast mind] you don't look out for yourself
You're overdressed as always, stiff and straight in a black suit and tie. You weren't meant for battle but you've led your troops into inferno after inferno, everyone from newly-minted academy graduates to soldiers senior to you in age and experience, if not in rank. Trading out your time between the field and the makeshift infirmary. There's hardly been a woman in your bed in weeks, but it's over now. It's almost over.
[michael]
There's a scream, a cry, really, almost agonizing, just before it seems all the moisture's sapped from the air and there's nothing-- no Lucifer with his millions, no Bal, nothing but heat, but fire.
One of your lieutenants grabs your sleeve, says something you can't quite catch, and you shove him away, delve straight into the fray. It's hotter now with every step you take, your face, your arms red and stinging. Burning. Healing them would be a waste and in a dry moment of sanity you're cursing your own abilities. Fire with wind, the same combination that helped win battles, might kill you now.
You keep shoving past soldiers until you reach the clearing, until Michael's right in front of you, crouched like a child. There's only the two of you for what feels like miles, the two of you and the thought, the realization that you have to do this, you must, not for the heaven that despises you, not to curry favor you'll never have again. Not for yourself as a paltry payback for what he's done for you, the years spent in miserable silence except for him. It's for him. You lean forward, pat him on the head.
(whatever you say is muffled, blurred by time or dreaming, whatever his answer is, equally so)
(your tone's as impassive as always, though, low and quiet)
[heal your face, it hurts just to look at you] and his words repeat themselves, reverberate in your head. Your shirt's stuck to your skin. It'll peel with it, later. Maybe.
[could you give me a light first?] and you're smiling through charred lips. The lighter in your pocket's too hot to hold. The cigarette in your blackened hand wobbles, trembles.
And the fire's gone now. All except for a tiny flame that appears on the end of your cigarette.
[michael]
There's a scream, a cry, really, almost agonizing, just before it seems all the moisture's sapped from the air and there's nothing-- no Lucifer with his millions, no Bal, nothing but heat, but fire.
One of your lieutenants grabs your sleeve, says something you can't quite catch, and you shove him away, delve straight into the fray. It's hotter now with every step you take, your face, your arms red and stinging. Burning. Healing them would be a waste and in a dry moment of sanity you're cursing your own abilities. Fire with wind, the same combination that helped win battles, might kill you now.
You keep shoving past soldiers until you reach the clearing, until Michael's right in front of you, crouched like a child. There's only the two of you for what feels like miles, the two of you and the thought, the realization that you have to do this, you must, not for the heaven that despises you, not to curry favor you'll never have again. Not for yourself as a paltry payback for what he's done for you, the years spent in miserable silence except for him. It's for him. You lean forward, pat him on the head.
(whatever you say is muffled, blurred by time or dreaming, whatever his answer is, equally so)
(your tone's as impassive as always, though, low and quiet)
[heal your face, it hurts just to look at you] and his words repeat themselves, reverberate in your head. Your shirt's stuck to your skin. It'll peel with it, later. Maybe.
[could you give me a light first?] and you're smiling through charred lips. The lighter in your pocket's too hot to hold. The cigarette in your blackened hand wobbles, trembles.
And the fire's gone now. All except for a tiny flame that appears on the end of your cigarette.